


An Academic Compromise

by wilma_de_worde



Series: A Thousand Apologies [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, 221B Ficlet, Gen, Johnlock Fluff, One Shot, Parentlock, St. Bart's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilma_de_worde/pseuds/wilma_de_worde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>221B Ficlet One-off. William Watson-Holmes attempts to stage a protest against his father's arcane opinion regarding education.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Academic Compromise

‘I don’t want to go to school!’ There was a sudden clatter as two hundred pens and pencils scattered across the living room floor. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up from his work to see Will’s small hands balled into fists, his face defiant. ‘It isn’t fair!’

‘Going to school isn’t fair? Getting an education isn’t fair?’

‘No!’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I completely forgot you were an underprivileged, abused waif living in a developing nation.’ John rolled his eyes. ‘You are going to school. This isn’t a debate.’

‘Hamish doesn’t go to school!’

‘ _Hamish_ isn’t old enough. He’ll start next year.’

‘Classic ageism! He gets to stay home but I can’t! Why do I have to go?’

‘You need to make friends, Will. You need to learn. You need to see what _normal people are like_!’

‘I hate normal people!’

‘William, don’t discriminate.’ Sherlock’s hand twitched over the knob of the microscope. ‘Normal people are a fascinating study.’

‘Why can’t I just stay home and have Dad teach me?’

‘That is _never_ going to happen.’

‘Why not? I learn loads more at Bart’s than I ever do at school!’

‘William--’ Sherlock warned.

‘ _Bart’s_?’

Sherlock sighed. ‘Here we go.’

‘What in _God’s name_ were you doing at _Bart’s_ , William?’

‘Molly was showing him the effects of river water on external decomposition.’

‘ _You took him to Bart’s_?’

‘I was merely trying to encourage his interests in extracurricular study--’

‘You took an _eight-year-old_ to the _morgue_??’

‘You said we wouldn’t get in trouble!’ William whined.

Sherlock glared at him. ‘ _You_ said you wouldn’t say anything!’

‘Jesus Chri-- Am I the _only_ adult in this house??’

‘Yes.’ John turned to the couch, wide-eyed and furious. Hamish glanced up from his book and offered an apologetic shrug.

‘What did I tell you about that behaviour the last time?’ drawled Sherlock.

‘Don’t provoke Papa, Hamish,’ he recited, ‘He’s killed people before.’

‘Alright!’ All three of them jumped at John’s threatening tone. ‘I am calling parental carte blanche.’ Will flinched as an accusing finger swerved to him. ‘ _You_ are going to school tomorrow and every day after until at _least_ such a time as you are no longer legally bound to your parents!’

‘But Dad said--’

‘ _Dad_ is wrong _as is often the case_ no matter what he may claim.’

‘Really, John--’

‘Wrong! You are to go to your room and remain there until dinner is on the table. And don’t bother trying to sneak out; I painted the transom shut after last time.’ William spun to his father for confirmation. Sherlock met his eyes and nodded. He shoved his small fists into his pockets and stomped up the stairs, making sure to slam the door as loudly as possible. ‘As for you--!’ Hamish peeked over his book, small as a mouse. ‘Go check on Mrs Hudson, please.’

‘I didn’t _do_ anything, Papa!’

‘Your father and I are going to have a domestic. I don’t want you to sit through it.’

There was a heavy sigh from the kitchen. ‘It doesn’t do him any good to keep him from our domestics if you’re just going to tell him we’re about to have a domestic.’

‘Not in front of the children!’ He took a deep breath before smiling at Hamish. ‘Go on, darling. She was making biscuits this morning.’ 

Hamish closed his book and crawled off the sofa, hugging John around the legs as he went. ‘Please don’t kill my dad, Papa. Even if he is impossible.’

John closed his eyes, biting back his frustration. His hand petted the tousled mop of Hamish’s curls. ‘Tell you what: I won’t kill your dad if you bring back some chocolate biscuits.’

Hamish thought this over a minute before nodding decisively and toddling out the door. John closed it behind him, waiting for the soft click before rounding on Sherlock. Blue-green eyes flitted up to his from behind the microscope. The air shimmered with tension. ‘You look very nice today.’

‘Not going to work.’

Sherlock shrugged and returned to his eyepiece. ‘It was worth a shot.’

‘The morgue, Sherlock?’

‘He was interested!’

‘ _He’s eight years old_!’

He seemed to think this over. ‘I can see how you might be concerned.’

‘Can you?’ John tugged at his hair, leaning hard against the worktop. ‘Never again. Alright?’

Sherlock’s eyes were pleading. ‘Never?’

‘ _Never._ Understood?’

‘But what if he asks?’

‘ _He’s your son._ ’

Sherlock stared at him. ‘Sorry, was that supposed to be an argument for or against?’

John groaned, falling into the chair beside him. He rubbed his temples. ‘How is it scientifically possible that he has _none_ of your genetic code and _all_ of your _most annoying tendencies_?’

Sherlock smiled and returned to his studies. ‘You seem to have forgotten how many things his mother and I had in common.’ John’s reply was a wheezy snort. ‘I’m afraid you have a type.’

‘Is my type “completely insufferable”?’

‘It would seem so.’ Sherlock glanced at him, unable to stop his smile from broadening. ‘He’s learning boundaries, John. Trying to sort out what he can get away with doing. It’s all perfectly natural.’

‘Yes, but the problem is he’s _learning_ that you’ll let him do things that I will not.’

‘He’s an intelligent child.’

John groaned, the throbbing in his temples growing worse. ‘Sherlock, if this is going to work--’

‘What do you mean, “if”?’

‘If we’re going to be his parents--’

‘We _are_ his parents!’

‘Stop interrupting!’ Sherlock closed his mouth on a scowl, his eyes never leaving John’s. ‘I need you on my side.’

He looked almost hurt. ‘I’m always on your side, John.’

‘I know that, I mean…’ He ran a hand through his hair, searching for the words. ‘I can’t tell Will he isn’t allowed in the morgue and then come to find out you took him there the next day. I can’t limit Hamish to two new books if you’re going to sweep in with an armful of them.’ 

‘You must admit that two books is completely unreasonable--’

‘Two books _a week_ , Sherlock? Have you seen his room? It’s _heaving_ with books.’

‘Limiting his exposure to literature will do absolutely no good--’

‘We have to _eat_ , Sherlock!’

‘Hm.’ He was quiet a moment. ‘Alright, a compromise: no trips to the morgue and no bibliophilic binges; that seems reasonable enough given our circumstances. But I can take them to the library whenever they want and they can pick up any and all books that they like.’

‘Within reason.’

‘Fine. We’ll be home before supper.’

‘And _books_ within reason.’

‘There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book--’

‘Stop right there. You’re not allowed to quote authors at me just because I told you I like them.’

‘But it’s applicable--’

‘No, it’s manipulative. Stop it.’ Sherlock frowned. ‘I don’t want our kindergartner hauling _Gray’s Anatomy_ home from the library.’

‘Why would he get _Gray’s_ from the library? We have at least three copies here--’

‘Do you see my point?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Vaguely.’

John sighed. He reached for Sherlock’s hand, lacing their fingers together. ‘Look, I know that having us as parents, they’re never going to be…well, conventional. And I fully expect to come home one day and find you and Will cutting up eyeballs while Hamish makes commentary. I’m fine with that. Surprisingly fine.’ A twitch of a smile crossed Sherlock’s lips. ‘But it doesn’t seem fair to let all of that stop them from having as normal a life as possible. Hamish needs to talk to people who live outside of his head; Will needs to learn to control his temper. They’ve got to be _kids_ : have friends and study and play instead of gallivanting off to crime scenes with their father.’ He rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s pained expression. ‘Alright, fine, _in addition_ to going to crime scenes with their father. Is that agreeable?’

Sherlock squeezed his hand. ‘I suppose so.’ His smile warmed. ‘You worry about them too much.’

‘That’s my job.’

‘No, it’s _our_ job.’

‘Yes, but _you_ don’t do it.’

‘Of course I do it. I just don’t advertise the fact.’ His thumb rubbed circles along John’s knuckle. ‘They’re alright, you know. Truly. They’re good boys. They look after each other. You’re doing a wonderful job.’

John leaned his chin against his palm, his smile amused. ‘I thought you just said this was a joint effort.’

‘Don’t pretend I’m not absolute rubbish at it.’

He chuffed on a laugh. Sherlock smiled. ‘You’re utterly impossible.’

‘Excellent observation. You and Hamish are quite astute.’

‘He’s been reading the blog again.’

‘You really ought to delete that one of these days.’

‘We need the money.’

‘Ah, yes. The bibliophilic binges.’

‘I’m going to kiss you now.’

‘I can tolerate that.’

‘I tolerate you.’

‘You’re not kissing me yet.’

‘You’re still talking.’

‘You said you would.’

John tugged him closer, his lips ghosting over Sherlock’s parted mouth. ‘Then shut up and let me.’ 

Sherlock smiled and decided, just this once, to conform whole-heartedly to John’s wishes.

**Author's Note:**

> So far, everything I'm writing is existing in the same general AU that follows canon pretty closely (Series Title: A Thousand Apologies). Just, you know, for the record. There will be more; I just haven't written all of it yet.
> 
> I have nothing but gratitude and unconditional love for my offsite beta, Vincent 'Buttons' Price, who is an inspiration to me on a daily basis and requires frequent fwumping. If you are unfamiliar with fwumping, I am very sad on your behalf and volunteer to demonstrate on you should we ever be in the same place at the same time.
> 
> I don't own any of the characters I write about; I just love them to the depths of my heart and the tips of my toes. Please don't sue me, Steven Moffat. I already fear and admire you. Mark Gatiss, you can sue me, but only if you do it while dressed as Joan Crawford or Bamber Gascoigne. I'm not picky.


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